To Shape Raw Ore
by ABonusLevel
Summary: A series of disjointed drabbles focusing on James Ironwood, his character, and his relationships - romantic and otherwise. Updated intermittently.
1. Indignant (IronwoodxWeiss)

Ironwood eased himself into the cramped bathtub, letting out a series of small gasps and grimaces, his face twisting into a scowl.

"You're being really melodramatic," Weiss deadpanned, swirling the water in the small, closing space between them. "I made sure it wasn't too hot to start with, and then you had to go and take forever. The water's almost lukewarm now!" She pouted, and her tiny whirlpools in the water released swirls of fragrance, color, and glitter.

"I think we have vastly different opinions on 'lukewarm,' Weiss." Ironwood bit his lower lip, finally situated. He let out a heavy sigh as his back and shoulders were engulfed by the hot liquid, and as he pressed his shoulders against the rear of the tub, he was vaguely aware of his backwards motion pushing the water through him, and saturating his mechanics. "I'd forgotten just how uncomfortable hot water was."

Weiss raised a brow, a mix of concern and cynicism on her face. "What? Just how long has it been since you've bathed?"

" _Wow_ ," Ironwood teased, feigning indignance. "I'm just a filthy vagrant, you know? I slept around the academy campus so often that one day somebody just up and offered me the job of Headmaster and I ran with it. Bathing was never one of my habits so it's been literal years, Weiss. _Have standards_."

Weiss huffed and splashed him, and he laughed, his wide smile infectious.

"...No, it's actually been years. The short of it is, these parts aren't meant to be submerged." He shifted uncomfortably as the cloud of violet sparkles encroached. "I don't use more than a few inches of water to bathe, when I do use this tub. The main issue is that my gaskets will rot, and my lubricants won't hold up. Mmm, I've also been warned that my metal could get too heated in the water- and in turn, I could overheat and pass out. But that isn't something I'm worried about."

Weiss stared at him, her expression growing serious, soft, and concerned. "Why did you agree to this, then?" She moved to lay between his legs, lowering herself so that only her eyes peered up above the water. She placed a hand on his inner thigh; his human thigh.

"Because I am getting all of those things replaced tomorrow," Ironwood raised his hand to lackadaisically play with Weiss' silver strands as they gently wafted around them both, suspended in the sparkling moisture. "And all thanks to you, I'm going to be full of glitter."

"It's seaweed." Weiss breached water to say, before resubmerging herself.

Ironwood merely smiled, lazily glancing at her. The faint glow from his prosthetics pierced through the vividly cloudy water, illuminating Weiss' tiny, lithe form.

He tried not to notice himself against her perfection; tried not to notice his weeping scars that were burning in the hot, soapy water, and tried not to notice the harsh and jagged angles outlining his smooth, flat crotch plate.

"Whatever it is, it's nice."


	2. Blowback (Ironwood, Qrow)

_Drinking with Jimmy was always the strangest crapshoot_ , Qrow idly mused, smiling, as he looked down into the blast crater that they had made - where Ironwood was down on his back as he laughed and laughed, tears running down his dirty face; the hot, salty drops blazing watercolor trails of cleanliness through the black soot that marred his cheeks.

"Good fuckin' job, idiot. You call yourself a General? Can't blame me for this shit, this is all on you." Qrow shuffled his feet in the fine rubble, his balance unsteady and wavering as he found himself getting an unwelcome sense of deja vu. The cement origins of this particular chunk of Beacon's courtyard were at least still evident in the giant hole, which was still smoldering from Jimmy's garbage mixture of misaligned and mismeasured Dust in his ammunition. _Not a wholly lost cause,_ Qrow silently thanked, as he found and kicked a nice, stray rock in Ironwood's direction.

"What do you mean I can't?!" Ironwood wheezed, flailing his once-pristine, engraved pistol vaguely in Qrow's direction. The pistol was equally as covered in soot and debris as he was; the chamber blown out, and the gun's thick top strap peeled upwards, twisted into gnarled silver shrapnel. "I've never, _never_ made a round that was over pressure. This gun has never misfired on me. _Never_. This is on you and your shit semblance!"

The rock got James square in the chest, and its impact made a sharp, mocking _clink._ Qrow guffawed, as obnoxiously as he could.

 _Headmaster-General James Ironwood, of Atlas-_ Get a few good, high-dollar drinks into him, and he'd either get more deathly serious than anyone had any business ever being, or his thick metal skull would become laughably malleable, and entirely too susceptible to bad, light-hearted suggestions and shenanigans. Like trick-shooting empty bottles at two in the morning.

Qrow wondered if the man ever had a childhood, or if he just bliped into existence; stern, miserable, needing half a bottle of whisky to more convincingly be able to pretend that he was happy. To make himself and others believe that he was actually human through stupid, numb antics like these. Through these half-remembered attempts at mending fragile, trepedatious "friendships".

And Qrow paused, his snide grin flickering into a grimace; he was not drunk enough to escape wondering how he managed to wander so precariously close to being the pot calling the kettle black.

Ironwood groaned, still smiling, oblivious to Qrow's inner toilings and harsh judgements. He wobbled to his feet, and regained his composure; he made an attempt to pat himself down, to dust off his once pristine white uniform - but he found that his right arm was limp, inert, and useless. It hung loose, unnaturally sloped and dislocated, from his shoulder socket.

"Well." Ironwood's smile faded, and he frowned; his teeth bared in a disgruntled scowl. "Still all my fault, Qrow?"

"I mean, _technically_. I didn't know you when you went and lost half your damn body, you goddamned idiot." It was a bitter reflex; Qrow swallowed, seeing an all too sickeningly familiar look, now, on Ironwood's face; hollow, yearning, pained. _Disgusted._ All amplified by hampered inhibitions; too drunk for a good mood to ever last, and too drunk for the slightest bad feeling to not suffocate in an instant.

Qrow gave him the smallest panic.

"W-We can get you fixed up, okay." Qrow moved to join Ironwood; to help him climb out of the loose, silt-lined sides of the hole. "I'll get you fixed up, Jimmy."

"Forget it, Qrow." The look on his face was wounded, bitter, spiteful - and his words sounded entirely too sober. "Much better people than you have tried."


	3. Gutted (IronwoodxWeiss)

"It's wrong." Weiss whispered, pulling her exposed legs closer to her chest, and closer to the warmth of the blanket that encircled her. Her words were lost amidst the wind howling against the crags of the rocks above them, and amidst the seething crash and slam of the waves below them. They snuffed out her tiny sound, and took away her breath. "...This is... _Wrong_. And I know that you know it, too."

Ironwood offered no reply; no motion, no movement of the face. Nothing.

They both stared out into the black, icy, oceanic expanse. The steady, repetitious waves against the face of the cliff bringing breeze and froth, and raining quickly-freezing mist down upon them that shown iridescent in the shattered moon's light.

"I know." Ironwood finally replied, his voice hushed, weak, faltering against the white noise that threatened to so mercilessly suffocate them both.

He leaned to his side, resting his head on Weiss' pale, delicate shoulder; and Weiss lazily cocked her head, pressing her cheek to rest against his soft, graying hair.

"I just-" She paused, shifting her weight against the rocks and debris beneath her. The tiny pebbles and sand pressed hard into the soft flesh of her rear, lingering in spite of her movements and leaving painful indents. "...It's been so long. I don't remember how this happened; w _hen_ it happened. You- You were like a-" She paused, clacking her tongue in her mouth; her words suddenly feeling far too disgusting on her tongue, and her stomach turned from their taste.

"You know what you were to me, James. To me, _and to Winter_."

Ironwood's breath hitched in his throat. His head slumped forward, facing the ground. " _I'm so sorry, Weiss._ "

She turned, shifting her weight again; wrapping her arms around him, Weiss deeply nuzzled her face against his hair- and he leaned further, a tiny, gentle collapse into the warmth of her chest.

He wrapped his arms around her body in desperate reciprocation; _his embrace was so limp, so languid._

The moon's light once flashed and glinted _so brightly_ off Ironwood's prosthetics, Weiss could remember, as she looked at him - his callous armor gouged, tarnished, and unkempt.

She looked at him with such pity, now;and it left her feeling so gutted.

"Please. I need you. I _need_ you." His voice cracked, pleading. " _Please._ "

" _Don't,_ James."

With a jolt, he raised his head - and he kissed her. He kissed her with fire and passion; a wild, fitful burst of absolute desperation. He stared into her eyes as he licked and suckled and bit and ran his hands so swiftly along her body, with the goal of tenderly cupping her face.

 _His eyes were so glassy._

Weiss broke away and he paused his fervid assault; both of them gasping, winded- " _...What are we?_ "

"We're nothing, Weiss." He breathed, running his warm, soft hand along her back; she moaned and shivered, arching backwards - offering her breasts to him.

"But at least here, we can pretend. And I think that... We both need some good dreams, for once."

He took her hand, and squeezed it gently in his; his cold, corroded, steel fingers couldn't feel her - he could not feel her warmth, and her softness - but here, in this place, with this peace - in this vacuum of deafening static with nothing and everything around them - _he could imagine that he could._

Here, he found that he could imagine lots of things. That here, he could finally stop fighting, and let his broken mind do what it did best-

 _He could see her, in Weiss; when the moon shone so bright, like tonight._

 _And she was whole again._

 _And there was no blood on her skin, and no bones piercing through her flesh, as she cried out so desperately for him-_

 _She was still alive, here._

They sat, together, for a moment- in each other's arms, in silence.

The waves crashing below them, and the wind howling above them.

Drills and refineries and storage containers dotting the pitch-black horizon with their blinks and their glows, rich with blood-soaked Dust.


	4. Rupture (IronwoodxWinter) (NSFW)

"...I haven't felt it yet, today." James couldn't stand to stare out of the massive panes of glass that composed the balcony's door; couldn't stand to take in the same, tired, disgusting sight of the poisoned horizon. Instead, he focused on the ornate curves and black finish of the door's wrought iron frame peeling away, and yielding to rust. _He nearly had each chip, and each rotting pivot, memorized, too - but not yet, at least._

"I'm glad to hear it, Sir." Winter approached him from behind, laying a hand on "his" shoulder - the jagged lumps and tarnished gunmetal of Ironwood's cracked and broken prosthetics still keenly visible beneath the woven, sinuey strips of ghostly white and translucent flesh. "It's been so long since you've had a good day. You deserve it."

After _so long_ , in this terrible place, enduring these terrible things- Winter still had such strength. _Such strength in her words, in her voice, in her movements..._

She somehow still had the strength to actually gaze out; to take in the hazy, bloodstained landscape. To accept the horizon as a thick soup of volcanic miasma; its burning, toxic mist obscuring the hulking, monstrous shadows of towering, unfathomable Grimm.

 _Her unyielding strength was so painful to witness, somehow._

"It was in my right thigh two days ago. And yesterday, it was in the back of my neck." Ironwood pressed both of his hands flat against the clouded, murky glass of the door. _It was so hot, against both of his palms; and he shuddered._ "It's been acting erratic, lately."

"I know. I could see it moving in your neck." Winter trailed her hand down the distorted skin of his side, before wrapping her arms around his waist. "I didn't want... To say anything. I didn't want you to panic, and have me try to cut it out again." She pressed her face to the nape of his neck, kissing and suckling his twisted, reconstructed flesh. "I'm sorry, Sir."

Ironwood exhaled a soft, breathy sigh, leaning into her ministrations. "It's alright, Winter. You made the right choice, and I appreciate your attentiveness and concern. I'm sure it will settle back down into my chest, eventually." He moved to place his hand over hers, the other still propped firm against the hot glass. He moved and slid Winter's lithe hand further down, pressing her palm over and into the fabric of his crotch. His cock was already plump with blood, blunt and thick and half-erect. "Is this what you want, though? _Again?_ "

Winter answered with a firm grab, and a bite to his neck.

 _Their first time had been so tender_ , he remembered; it had been so intense, so panicked, and so nervous. He had wanted to know sexual release _so desperately_ , and for _so long-_ but he was so afraid.

Afraid of whatever poison was running through his mockery of flesh, now- Afraid of the parasitic Grimm that was so actively burrowing and tunneling within him-

 _He was afraid of the guilt._

But, nothing came of it.

Nothing came of their first time, nor their second- And Ironwood had lost track, now. He had lost track of just how long they were here, in this hellscape. He had lost track of how many times and in how many ways Salem had ripped him apart, and how she had raped him, and how many times she had regrown his skin and his limbs and his-

 _They both came so hard, the first time._ It was so gentle, so passionate - and he remembered so fondly waking up beneath the covers, his head resting on Winter's soft and warm navel.

He remembered how tranquil her breaths were, and how the slow, repetitious rise and fall of her stomach lulled him back to sleep.

 _She had saved him, that night._

But now- _He didn't know what this was, now._

Ironwood turned and grabbed her; his movements a numb blur. A mechanical fumble, where he held her neck too tightly and kissed her and bit her- and he _threw_ her onto the bed.

Did he do the same yesterday? Or an hour before?

He split the closure on the front of his pants, still not wanting to give Winter full audience to his malformed, translucent erection that sat against twisted, flesh-veined steel.

He forced and held Winter's legs up beside her head, and she cried out - the prolonged lack of combat leaving the tendons in her legs stiff, and yearning.

He forced himself into her swollen, weeping pussy in one deep, smooth push; and Winter cried out from the pain of being filled so forcefully, so suddenly. _They had managed to enjoy foreplay, once._

Ironwood wasted no time- and he savored the numb, familiar sound of the the heavy, ornately carved wooden headboard slamming so precariously against the wall as he viciously railed her, pounding against Winter's soft, bruised rear with fast, heavy, violently thrusts.

 _He could feel her juices run down his thick shaft, and soak the fabric of his thighs- She was always so wet; so excited for him, even like this._

" _G-General Ironwood!_ " Winter screamed between loud moans and yelps, unrestrained. She reached and grabbed for his head - _bowed in shame_ \- and she grabbed at his damp hair, as he mechanically fucked her; each thrust still rocking the bed and causing it to creak and buckle.

Ironwood's eyes were closed, and his mind was vacant - he focused on the feeling of his own rapid heartbeat, and his own quick, shallow breaths- Before he felt Winter's body tremble around him, and he felt her familiar tight, rhythmic contractions around his length.

" _Cum inside me, James." Winter pleaded, her voice small and cracking. "Please._ "

How many times had he heard this? How many times did Winter breathe this to him, hot and desperate? _Why did it still gut him hollow and break his heart, but drive him wild?_

He opened his eyes, and his lips trembled. Winter's smile was so gentle, and her eyes so pleading. _Somehow, despite this awful place, she was still so strong. So beautiful._

Ironwood stared her down as he kept his speed, hilting her over and over- and he pressed himself deeper still within her as he came, losing himself to sweet _feeling_ ; arching his back, and once again filling Winter to the absolute brim with spurt after spurt of hot, thick semen. Filling her womb with some wicked seed wrought from black magic; the milk of some strange flesh, from which they both knew no origin. _He filled her, so shamelessly, with an agape mouth and a choked, stifled cry._

He collapsed onto her, panting, covered in sweat - trembling, he gripped Winter's hand tightly in his; and Winter, her legs finally free, wrapped them lazily around his waist.

James murmured something, incoherent and slurred. Winter looked down in a tranquil, doting concern- and she took a shocked pause, her eyes widening in a familiar horror.

She could see a mass of tendrils splay out beneath his flesh- thick, raised black veins wriggling, and worming their way across his skin. _And again, it was within the back of his neck-_ but this atrocity was a far cry from the small lump that the parasitic Grimm typically manifested as.

The disgusting tentacles were visibly burrowing their way into the base of his skull, and into the top of what little remained of his fragmented and breaching steel spine.

Ironwood looked up; his head movement irregular, and unnaturally stiff. The black tendrils had made quick work of his anatomy, and swirled, now, within his right eye. They worked their way across the surface of his sclera, causing it to bleed- And Winter looked on in a terrified panic as the creeping lengths forced themselves out of his eye, and into the blanching skin of his face. They lapped and squirmed, so very thirsty, against the metal plate still embedded in his forehead.

"It- It's telling me that I- _I was once the leader of a great, proud army._ " He whispered, pitifully; his voice cracking. " _Was I really?"_

"J-James-" Winter struggled halfheartedly against him, and his grip on her hand tightened. He was violently shaking, now, as blood dripped from his face and collected in the corners of his mouth.

 _"Winter, it's telling me that- That if I fight alongside them- If I lead them- She'll- Let you go-"_


	5. Posterity (IronwoodxCinder) (NSFW)

Slow.

She'll take it slow, this time.

She eavesdrops on Ironwood's phone calls; from the important to the mundane.

She eavesdrops on Ironwood's daily conversations; the mic picking up the scratching of his fine uniform's fabric as he moves, and talks, and always seems to get such good service.

She sometimes lucks out, and gets to watch him through its camera.

And sometimes, she gets very lucky indeed- She sees Atlas, and the sweet, sensitive things that only Top Men have ever seen.

And she's recording.

Always.

It's been months.

The conversations blur together, now.

Every sliver of tender, useful, delicious information that Ironwood unwittingly gives to her is always caked and bloated with choking gristle.

Ironwood is talking to a doctor? Probably about his disgusting mess of a body.

What a disgusting, putrid mess his body is. So scarred, so utterly useless on one side. Missing limbs, mangled and burnt off stubs that he hides like a coward.

Truly... Revolting...

Ironwood is getting a higher dosage on his prescription for... Quetiapine?

Interesting. But useful?

She's gotten very good at guessing when she can watch him.

On most nights, he leaves his scroll elsewhere; a black shot of the ceiling, or the inside of a pocket.

But sometimes, Cinder has learned, the drugs don't stop the voices that he hears. Don't stop the things that he thinks he sees.

And he'll dock his scroll, and listen to ambient rain, or wind, or numb and mindless static.

What was once an objective desire to merely suck Ironwood dry of information had twisted into something else.

Cinder had come to truly, genuinely enjoy these sweet, savory nights spent watching him.

The nights where he violently writhed and cried out in his bed, unrelenting terrors waking him every hour, every thirty minutes, every-

The nights where he did not sleep, and merely paced restless like a madman.

The nights where he drank himself unconscious on his sofa, or his living room floor- an empty glass or half-empty bottle always still firm in his grip.

Those nights, especially, were what Cinder looked forward to most.

They always had such beautifully broken glass, Cinder admired, when Ironwood's body would succumb to gentle tremors - he'd murmur and cry, and his grip would give way with the spasm of his trigger finger.

This passing lust was so disgustingly gradual, Cinder knew - and her knowledge of it was so, so bitter.

It was so deeply quenching to know how much Ironwood suffered in private; so primally satisfying to watch him slowly decline and succumb to his demons, both old and new.

The amusement that he brought to her on hot and lonely nights was almost worth it, Cinder mused on occasion. Almost.

She always smiled at way his body seemed to twist more violently, and more desperately grab at itself in his sleep, on the nights where her own pain became too much to bear alone.

And soon, to her utter disgust, Cinder found his low voice growling orders and frustrations and polite nothings to no one had become so... Comforting.

He was a man of strident routine, Cinder had found over these several months.

His alarm was always set to sound at four in the morning.

And he'd always groan, and drag himself out of bed, or push himself off the floor - no matter how drugged or drunk he still may have been.

He'd always shamble to his bathroom soon after, sticking himself with countless needles before downing innumerable pills.

He had a list of foods that he was approved to be able eat, which was tantalizingly short, soulless, and awful.

Everything good seemed to just wreak total havoc on that sad, artificial "stomach" of his.

She would smile at his little pains every morning; his tiny winces passing aromatic bakeries and little nervous swallows beside coffee shops, as he assured another important man that he would be on time to yet another stale, repetitious, important meeting.

His little agonies were truly such a sweet novelty at first; but after these months with him- it was another routine.

Everything, Cinder would sigh too frequently to herself, seemed to have become... A comfortably numb routine.

This night was strange, Cinder noted.

A new desk, with a new power dock- And some beautiful view of some place that she knew was neither within the depths Atlas' military development labs, nor a facet of the towering skyrise of Atlas Academy.

He was sober, Cinder could tell.

Sober, but still unshaven and so... Exhausted.

She turned to her side on her bed, watching intently. The blazing tinge of the volcanic wastes beyond her massive, ornate windows tinted her scroll's screen, and she mused that Ironwood looked so charming bathed in a wash of blood red.

She wondered, how would he suffer for her tonight? What intriguing night wrought of nightmares and agonies would her hideously disfigured blowhard of a tyrant treat her to?

He... Pulled down the knot of his tie, and began to unbutton his shirt.

Cinder's chuffed with bemusement. Something very strange indeed must have wormed its way into his thick metal skull, for him to so boldly remove his clothing.

So many months, and never had she seen his flesh in real-time; the man was too prude, too pious, too utterly, suffocatingly terrified of what he might see reflected back at him in the picture windows that plagued Atlas architecture.

Whatever the reason for his strange and uncharacteristic boldness, it was a decidedly welcome treat, Cinder mused, as she watched him slide off his silken black shirt.

The Tyrant of Atlas, stripping- just for her. Only for her. Perhaps, some day, for millions- but tonight, James Ironwood belonged to her.

His muscles were so torn, and his scarred and shredded abdomen so bulging and hideous. They were so nauseating to witness in motion as he moved to fold his shirt, and as he bent to set it aside.

Cinder shuddered; her face was flushed, she could tell- From this?

He sat back down onto the sofa, and Cinder admired how the deep black leather and steel supports framed him, complimenting his prosthetics and contrasting sharply with his pants- which he slowly unbuttoned, and unzipped.

Why... Was he looking so vacantly across the room, and into the camera?  
His legs spread, Ironwood slid his left hand into the seat of his pants, and he groaned- his head dipping back.

The fuck was this?

He caressed himself, gentle at first, before hissing and wincing- and with a firm grip, he readjusted himself- bringing his thick, throbbing, malformed and half-steel erection into the open air.

Cinder scowled at the screen, furious and shocked- Fervently bringing up Ironwood's schematics beside the video that she couldn't bear to take her eyes off of.

The man had nothing, she knew. She knew. He was a fucking eunuch.

But what the fuck was this, between his legs?

When had this happened?

How had it escaped her?

Cinder cried out; a choked, pathetic wheeze in absolute fury as tears clouded her eyes at his utter betrayal-

And Ironwood let out a tiny, pathetic moan as his hips bucked up so slightly.

Glaring seething daggers, Cinder's breath hitched as she ran her burnt and disfigured left hand along her inner thigh; the wrinkles and divots on her marred flesh catching on the smoky, tight-netted nylon of her stockings.

She never took her hateful gaze off Ironwood, and she felt so bitterly teased as he quickened his pace; his fingers so quickly massaging his flesh and steel-ribbed abomination.

Cinder bit her lip as the clumsy remnants of her fingers punctured through her fragile stockings, and she wasted no time in pressing and sliding the stubs of her fingers along her slick, soaked folds.

She indulged in a half-focused daydream as she listened to Ironwood moan and pant and whimper; that he was the one to have ripped into her stockings. That his heinous steel fingers were the ones grabbing at her, his gaze broken and pathetic- but still so hateful.

That would be the Ironwood that she knew- passively hating her, working against her, working to end her- Even while broken.

Cinder sawed at her clit, making little sounds to compliment Ironwood's frankly embarrassing level of vocality.

And Ironwood suddenly stopped; his chest heaving, he moved his hand away from his erection.

It was still so massive, and still standing so firm and demandingly upright.

Cinder whined as she watched precum dribble down from his tip; it shone so tantalizingly against the matte black of his wretched penis' silicone.

Looking at him so winded, with his cock still so hard and massive, she ached so badly with the desire to force him to fill her-

To subdue him, and wring his neck, and straddle him as he gasped for breath as she made his human and machine lungs both burn and fill with smoke-

How dare he make her fucking ache.

Ironwood's pants were too confining, apparently- Not that Cinder could blame him. He slid them down, abandoning them in an undignified pool on the floor.

It was a garish contrast to the neatly folded shirt, and Cinder wrinkled her nose. It was off-putting for him to leave them like that. It, once again, wasn't the Ironwood that she knew.

He grabbed for his tie, the crimson silk shining tiny glares into the camera as if it was privy and bitter on its owner's behalf. With a sloppy, fumbled motion he wrapped it around his cock - and laid back along the length of the sofa, propping his mechanical leg high up on the cushions of the sofa's backrest.

Ironwood murmured little obscenities as he fucked himself, his hips bucking hard into his tight silk-lined grip.

Cinder quivered; plunging her severed fingers into her soaked and overflowing pussy as deep as they would go.

Watching his violent movements- She could imagine herself on top of him, riding him, him pounding into her, hilting her, stretching her and filling her to the absolute brim he struggled in vain against her.

Her fingers were not enough to sate her ache to be filled - not enough to make her fantasy more tangible - but her clit was so hard, and so throbbing, and she was so close.

Ironwood yelled out, his face contorted in something that Cinder knew so well from him- Pain.

He came hard, shooting forceful stream after stream of thick, beautiful, milky cum onto his chest - and Cinder followed suit, her body shuddering with his as she let herself be utterly overcome by the sweet rhythmic contractions within her, her focus on the screen becoming blurry and lost.

The throes of her orgasm lingered longer than they ever had; fueled and spurred like wildfire over dry brush by Ironwood's continued choked coughs and desperate gasps- and briefly Cinder wondered if she really knew herself as well as she thought she did.

She wheezed as she came down from her orgasm; the aftershocks still lingering, and goading raspy, broken, pathetic noises to escape her lips.

Ironwood's hands were over his face, and he lay motionless; save for the heave of his chest, and the malformed sinewy lumps of his abdomen's muscles raising with his approximation of a diaphragm.

With shaky hands, slick and strung with her thick juices, and her mind still clouded by such pointed and hateful lust-

Everything good had to burn, in order to begin again.

It would be better, this time.

There would be no betrayals.

There would be nothing missed.

There would be no comfort, no numb routine.

With frantic passion, Cinder attached a folder - hundreds of audio clips, thousands of screen captures-

Crisp, clear, video of mere moments ago. Ironwood's disfigured, mangled body utterly overcome by the throes of ecstasy, spilling viscous cum all over himself.

There was a chime, on Ironwood's scroll- and he snapped to attention, removing his hands from his face and turning his head.

A light ignited, and blinked so callously at him.

"Do it again for me."


	6. Salt (IronwoodxWeiss) (NSFW)

The thick, syrupy smell of cheap bourbon was strong on Ironwood's hot, wet breath. It was always strong on his breath. Weiss wasn't sure if she wished that it wasn't.

Her mind wandered, struggling to delay acknowledging the sensations of Ironwood's mouth suckling on her neck, and his teeth sinking in to her flesh, and the jolts that she felt run straight to her clit when he gently pinched and teased her pert nipples.

Weiss remembered her father gloating so proudly about switching out some liquor. Gloating about dumping bottom-shelf garbage into a vintage bottle; gloating about "successfully" masquerading practical moonshine as a fine, prestigious single malt scotch.

She remembered Jacques' bitter, mocking laugh as he gloated to his flock of fellow elites. All of them laughing, so eager to presume Ironwood an idiot.

The General was just too polite to call Jacques out on his petty bullshit.

He was always too polite.

He was always too grateful that Jacques was willing to share a drink with him.

He never showed it, but Weiss knew. She could see the ache in his unfocused, tired eyes - he was always so desperately eager to lie to himself, and pretend that Jacques was his friend.

He was always so lonely.

Weiss whines when Ironwood's breath hitches in his throat, and when he pauses, and when his hands begin quaking and recoiling from Weiss' damp, pale skin.

She whines harder when he stops sliding and rubbing and grinding his hard, ribbed erection against the folds of her slick and throbbing pussy.

They both know that this is sick. That this is _wrong._

Weiss doesn't rationalize it; it's just something that... _Happened,_ one night. One night where they were both happy, and laughing, and relatively alone. Something that keeps happening. Something that she keeps letting happen. A few hours spent breaking a numb wind-up doll routine; a few hours where they're both able to feel so good, and so much less lonely.

Ironwood- _He won't speak to her about this, about them._ About the shame and revulsion and guilt that's always so plain on his face. He's strange; a paradox. He wants it, and then abhors it, and then cries as he eagerly succumbs.

All Weiss knows is that he drinks to keep up his nerve, and to forget his conscious.

That he can't so much as look at her anymore if he isn't black-out drunk.

That he was the one who leaned close, on that strange night so long ago. That he was the one who had kissed her first, and then embraced her with a desire that she had never known.

" _You should have another drink,_ " Weiss whispers to him, taking his trembling hands in hers as she smiles at him with gentle eyes, and kisses the tip of his nose. His cheeks are always salty with tears, and she's come to loathe their taste.

Ironwood numbly nods, and clumsily contorts to flounder and reach her nightstand; his flask almost empty already.

It kills Weiss to encourage him. It kills her to be flawlessly emulating Jacques' control over her mother. It kills her, and she can feel it rotting her heart.

But, he needs it.

She needs it.

Ironwood's flask has real, single malt vintage. He shared it with Jacques, once. And through his smile and canned and rehearsed retorts, Weiss could tell that he was genuinely sad when Jacques wasn't impressed.

He finishes the last fourth or so of the scotch that was left in his flask in a series of fast, aggressive swallows. The fine flavor is lost on him; hundreds of dollars inhaled solely to forget.

Maybe, some day, Weiss could tell her father that Ironwood's preferred poison tasted so much better when it was fresh on Ironwood's lips. Tasted so much better when it was mixed with his saliva, and pressed against her tongue with his.

He takes a moment, lingering with his empty flask in his hand, and Weiss is on him in a heartbeat.

She kisses and massages the length of his waning erection; a collapsing half-steel structure that she, as a huntress, feels very obligated to save.

Ironwood whines as Weiss' mouth migrates and moves and she licks the head of his dick, sliding the whole length of her tongue against the underside of his glans.

His body trembles and his back arches when the wisp ends of her long ponytail dance and caress the flesh of his inner thigh.

He's rock hard again, and squirming against her - whimpering, biting his bottom lip to stifle his cries. He is always so emotive for her. So breathy, and so vocal.

A bit of time spent sucking his cock and fondling his balls, Weiss so aggressively miking him for his salty precum, the last of his liquor hits - and Ironwood's lost his coordination, and his sense of where he is. His mechanical arm twitching on its own and going half-limp, he can't prop himself up anymore.

He fumbles back, his head immediately lost in Weiss' fat, voluptuous pillows. He stares vacantly at the ceiling - his mouth agape, and his eyes rolling and eyelids fluttering in a vain attempt to focus and regain his bearings.

Weiss smiles, moving her mouth from kissing his cock to kissing his scarred and brutalized naval- to kissing his bulging and twisted abdomen. To kissing his mangled chest, and mischievously biting on his remaining nipple.

"You're... Ready now, right?"

Ironwood hesitates, his mouth agape and quivering in a silent sob- so blissfully out of his mind with drunken incoherence, he gives her a small nod.

They've fucked countless times; but Weiss' tiny body always struggles to take all of his thick, iron cock.

She positions herself on top of him, her legs straddling his waist - and Weiss forces herself down in a violent motion, her drenched and overflowing cunt doing little to soften the harsh sensations of his cock's hard metal ridges and overlapping plates.

Weiss boggled at how Ironwood always made her feel so deliciously tight, and stretched, and so impossibly full. Even after all this time, his dick was still so overwhelming for her.

His right hand still twitching and unreliable, Ironwood did his best to grab Weiss' ass; giving her no time to become accustomed to his length, he lifted up her light, tiny body and slammed it down in succession - and Weiss screamed out; his dick rubbing and pressing so hard against her pussy's most delectably tender and sensitive places.

"Oh, Gen- General Ir- Iron-" Weiss struggled to cry out the perversion of James' name that highlighted their sin, and failed - her cognitive words melting into pleasured moans and screams. He was fucking her too hard, and too fast - and how good it felt was maddening.

She loved these lucky nights, when Ironwood's tender kisses and reassuring hugs didn't lead to a gentle passion, and instead gave way to this violent and mechanical sort of fucking. On these nights when he used her as a toy, it made her feel so much less guilty.

She wasn't sure if she liked the view, Weiss lamented between his powerful thrusts. Ironwood's head was tilted back, and his was mouth slightly agape in a silent, pleasured cry. How utterly exhausted he looked as tears dripped and leaked from the corners of his shut and tired eyes, rolling along the sides of his head until they met his ears.

"C-can you... Fuck me from behind?" Weiss managed to say, panting, lamenting.

Ironwood opened his eyes; and Weiss' heart was broken. He looked so defeated, in this low light; the darkness catching in the hollows of his cheeks, and the bags beneath his eyes. He looked so broken, and so sad.

"I- I can- Try. I'd... Do anything for you..."

Ironwood ripped her from his cock, and Weiss' squeal masked the audible pop that it made.

He laid Weiss beside him, and clumsily rolled over; doing his best to prop himself up again, he wobbled, unsteady; too far gone to force any focus over his prosthetics.

Ironwood positioned himself behind her, and pressed the head of his metal length to Weiss' soft, eager, and dripping opening. Laying his mangled body flush against the entire length of Weiss' back, he completely eclipsed her as he reentered her - and Weiss sighed, once again so deeply satisfied to have her tiny body stuffed with his delicious girth and outrageous texture.

He grabbed and held her wrists, pulling her arms taut against her sides before using them as a means to pull himself, and go back to slamming so furiously into her.

Weiss' hair immediately catches in his metal joints, and it hurts as he aggressively thrusts and rebounds, unaware- But this pain is a winning trade, Weiss thinks, if it means not having to see him cry.

"I'm- I'm close," Ironwood gags, and to her horror, Weiss can feel his tears drip onto her- and she tries so hard to pretend that it's sweat.

But, she can't.

 _She just can't._

"Please keep going," Weiss begs; her body rocking back against his, and meeting Ironwood's increased momentum; but she knows it's selfish, and that she won't cum. It feels so maddeningly good, but- he can't make her cum, anymore.

Just like she can't make him smile, anymore.

"Oh, _Weiss-_ " Ironwood whimpers as he reaches his climax, spilling his hot seed deep inside Weiss' tight, tense body.

Panting, he trembles as he pulls out; his milky release dragging with suction and his metal plates, spurting and spilling out of her.

"I'm- _I'm so sorry..._ "


End file.
